It makes the experience of watching the film something akin to a game of tennis played in the round, as the focus is passed from one funny performance to another. After a while, you don’t quite know which way to look.

But by the time all the various plotlines come together, the frenetic energy is almost lost. That said, American Dreamz is saved by a determined cast.

The plot is full of rich moments for satire but errs too much on the side of caution. If you set out to make a comedy based on the idea of a US president being assassinated by a terrorist on live television, you have to be fearless.

Hugh Grant plays Martin Tweed, a bounder with perfect diction who is the host of a TV talent contest that bears more than a passing resemblance to Pop Idol. Grant’s character is modelled on Simon Cowell, equally nasty but with slightly better fashion sense. The show’s a massive hit, a fact not lost on a troubled White House dealing with an unpopular war in the Middle East, miserable poll numbers and an out-of-touch president (Dennis Quaid) who doesn’t read newspapers.

A Svengali-like chief of staff (Willem Dafoe) plots to have the boss connect with America by making a guest appearance on Tweed’s show. Meanwhile, an inept terrorist played by Sam Golzari with dark connections finds his way on to the show, as does Sally, an ambitious small-town songbird played by Mandy Moore. There’s a bomb, an illicit affair, scenes from a terrorist-training camp, some hit-and-miss cameos and a lot of dubious pop music.

So there’s plenty of satirical mud pies to throw here, though Paul Weitz’s screenplay fails to land them accurately.

Quaid’s President, for example, is written as a well-meaning fool, which gives the actor virtually nothing to act with. When Staton finally reads a newspaper, noting, “There’s a lot of stuff in here,” the line falls on its predictable backside.

But many of the performances are wickedly good. John Cho and Judy Greer, as Tweed’s highly-stressed assistants, wouldn’t be out of place in a 30s screwball comedy.

Hugh Grant, so at home on the screen as a self-absorbed wretch, brings a sort of languorous grandeur to Tweed.

Sick to death of the show he has created, he watches the less-talented contestants with his eyes widening in a mixture of horror and amusement. “That was strange,” he informs one, “but rather wonderful.”